


Saturday Morning, Sunday Afternoon

by Starlingthefool



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Anal Sex, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-05
Updated: 2010-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-08 17:37:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlingthefool/pseuds/Starlingthefool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Watson adores this rare, calm lucidity, the intimacy of a quiet morning spent making love.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Saturday Morning, Sunday Afternoon

**Author's Note:**

> Request by an anon at the Sherlock Holmes Kinkmeme:_ I want Watson sitting a chair, Holmes backwards in his lap, head tipped back on Watson's shoulder. Quiet, breathy sex. _

Watson likes it this way: reclining back into his chair, Holmes' in his lap, both of them naked and fairly undone with lust. There is no sound in the room but that which leaks in from the street, and the quiet moans of the two of them. He runs his hands across the scarred and freckled skin of Holmes' back, forward across his shoulders, down his chest to tweak his hardened nipples. Watson thrusts into him rhythmically, biting and kissing along the man's spine.

There are as many facets to Holmes' personality as there days in the week. The charming gentleman, often concealing some sort of subterfuge; the depressive drug addict; the brilliant, all-seeing detective; the unhinged insomniac, playing the violin in a mania that borders on a fugue state; the brutal fighter, seeking refuge in violence; the protective friend. And, more recently, the wild lover. Holmes is like a force of nature during sex, his tight control giving way to a fierce and tumultuous passion.

More rarely, there is also this other side of Holmes; calm, quiet and contented, almost sleepy. Lazy. The Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning facet, Watson thinks in his more whimsical moments (though it has nothing to do with the calender - more of the general mood and slower pace of those days). This is the man who wakes up in time for breakfast and shares the newspaper in companionable silence. His focus is softened; he's not burning with energy, nor wilting under the weight of his own boredom. He's not seeking something to stimulate his mind, nor trying to shut everything out. He's just there, contentedly existing. It's incredibly rare, and Watson never fails to take advantage of it.

Holmes' supports himself on the arm rests, muscles quivering in strain and excitement. Watson moves his hands lower to rest on Holmes' hips, slowing the other man's movement. He adjust his angle, then pushes in agonizingly slow. A shudder rips through Holmes' torso. His head falls forward, dark hair in his eyes.

What is it like, the world that Sherlock Holmes inhabits? How does he survive its ups and downs? It's a question that has preyed on John Watson since he first began to appreciate Holmes' many idiosyncrasies. It's a question that keeps him awake some nights, more recently. For a man who professes to value logic over emotion, Holmes' seems trapped by the illogical rise and fall of his moods. Watson has learned to ride out the high peaks and wade through the darkened valleys with Holmes. He would not seek to change them; they are as innate to Holmes as his startling brilliance. And yet he adores this rare, calm lucidity, the intimacy of a quiet morning spent making love. He likes to fuck Holmes slowly and leisurely, to watch him come slowly undone.

Holmes leans back and Watson wraps his arm around his narrow chest. He rests his fingers on Holmes' neck, on the rough stubble below his jaw. He catches Holmes' hand as he moves to touch himself, and places it firmly back on the arm rest. "Let me, my dear man, let me..." he murmurs.

He cannot resist a bit more teasing; running his fingertips through the course hair, lightly stroking Holmes' sac and perineum, tweaking his nipples. Holmes' moans and tries again to take himself in hand, but Watson brushes him off, encircling Holmes' cock. Holmes' head falls back onto Watson's shoulder. He raises a hand to grab Watson's hair, pulling him into a kiss.

It's the kiss that breaks Watson's control. He starts thrusting harder and faster into Holmes, tugging on Holmes' cock at the same pace. Holmes throws his hand up behind the back of the chair, bracing himself. Watson's free hand is on his hip, steadying him.

It's been a slow buildup, and their orgasms are a long time in the making. It takes little to push Holmes over the edge, and he thrashes and moans as he comes in Watson's hand. His muscles clench around Watson's cock in a way that is exquisite and almost painful, and another few thrusts wrenches Watson's release from him.

Holmes groans as he lets Watson's flaccid cock slip out of him. Watson pulls him back against his chest, embracing him. Their kiss is wet, messy, and tastes of sweat and brandy. The clock in the hall ticks off the seconds as they sit, sated and euphoric. The street outside has gone quiet as afternoon gives way to evening. Save for the clock, the only sound in the room is them, the quiet rhythm of their matched breathing. In quiet seclusion, the two men breathe.


End file.
